The Beadmaker

I traveled through the life of him, I was before, during, after, within.

I am no longer who I was before I traveled through his life, though I wish I was. There is no beginning to how it happened, only the knowledge that since the moment I saw him for the first time, I needed to understand every part of him. This need will be what keeps me from him throughout even the most fluently changing timelines, and I have accepted this. I am sorry to every version of myself who will love the half of him who is free. I am the reason for the creation of the him I can never feel.

January 21st, 2024, Friday

He sits straight, and I lay next to him, holding onto his elbow as he fingers the rosary that he tells me he got from his mother. I hate to touch him while he prays; I can tell by his slight wincing movement as I place my hand more firmly that he will never feel God through me.

The changes in his face come and go so quickly as his fingers caress each red bead, and I can’t help but wonder what prayer he is reciting tonight. I know he will never tell me again because he knows that I cannot understand.

He finishes and faces me, placing his rosary back in the box where it will reside until I lose him again.

“Are you ready to go to sleep?” he asks me, his voice soft but distant.

I nod, even though my thoughts trap me in a restless state. He moves to hold me as he does every night, my head resting on his chest. We have been sleeping in this bed together for the past three days, and tomorrow morning, he is leaving.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” I tell him quietly.

“I’ll only be a few days this time. You have to learn some patience.”

My teeth grind when he tells me this, and I roll over in frustration to look at the wall. I find it infuriating how he criticizes me for the love I show, but I never tell him this. We fall asleep, and when I wake up, he is gone.

August 16th, 2021, Wednesday

He positions himself on top of me and leans down to kiss me. This is the first time I have ever been on his bed, and the mattress screams in distress every time we move.

The crucifix he wears around his neck hangs above my face, and I tell him playfully that we are leaving room for Jesus. He never responds to this with the humor it deserves. I am beginning to understand that he isn’t very funny.

He moves the crucifix behind his back, but it always falls forward. When it swings dangerously close to my mouth, I push it away with the tips of my fingers.

“Are you reaching for my necklace?” he asks, his tone guarded.

I hear the mistrust in his voice and feel his body tense against mine. He has never felt God through me.

October 9th, 2024, Monday

I look at him sitting across from me at the restaurant table. I would have liked to sit beside him, but he looks down on couples who show too much affection in public.

He glances at me over his menu and narrows his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask softly, though I know nothing is.

He hesitates, then sets down the menu. “Would you ever want to go to church with me?”

The question lands too quickly, as if he’s been holding it back, rehearsing it. I can see the layers behind his thoughts and think of the future of us if I say no. I see every truth of our intertwined existence clearly:

His family never approves of him being with me. He never marries me under the eyes of God. He takes our children to Sunday mass, and they ask why Mom never comes. He will never feel God with me. He will never see me after death.

“Yes.”

I regret answering so fast when I see him pray that night. I think about being in church and bowing my head to pray when I do not feel God coursing through me the way he does. I see the future is filled with silence. I am restless as he places the rosary that his mother gave him back into its box and holds me to go to sleep.

I am not fully awake, yet not entirely asleep.

The world around me feels incomplete, missing crucial elements of life. My hands move of their own accord, threading each bead with precision as if I have done this a thousand times before. The beads feel warm in my hands, as if imbued with something alive.

Each bead carries a memory. A child turned around in a quiet church pew. The sound of his voice murmuring a prayer I cannot understand. The way his eyes close tightly, shutting out the world as his lips move silently. The rosary closes between him and me, each bead taking something from me.

“This is for him,” a voice whispers, though I cannot tell if it is my own. I am both creator and observer, hands moving, heart aching. I see him as a child, holding the rosary for the first time, his small fingers clinging to its promise. I see him as a man, praying alone in the quiet darkness of his room, the beads slipping through his fingers like water.

And then, I see myself—not beside him, but apart. Watching. Always watching.

The rosary is complete, the devotional beads gleaming with the weight of what I have given. My hands tremble as I place it into the small wooden box that will carry it through time.

For a moment, I hesitate, not wanting to release my creation.

“Will this bring him closer to me?” I ask the void of darkness which surrounds me, though I know the answer.

The rosary is no longer mine—it never was.

The beads are heavier now, laden with something sacred, something eternal. The weight of the rosary follows me into the waking world as I shoot out of bed.

July 4th, 2025, Tuesday

It is raining, and the fireworks outside sound like faint echoes of gunshots. I am alone in the apartment, tracing the edges of the rosary box he left behind. The faint smell of incense still clings to it, mingled with the memory of his hands—calloused but gentle, always occupied with something more sacred than I could ever be.

I don’t open the box anymore. I know what’s inside, just as I know how this all ends.

The first time I saw it - the rosary, his hands, the weight of everything he carried, I knew. Time isn’t a line, not for me. It’s a river, looping endlessly around moments I wish I could change and moments I desperately cling to, though I know they will pass.

I see the days before me as clearly as the ones behind, but it doesn’t matter. He is always gone.

October 15th, 2004, Sunday

The church is quiet, save for the faint hum of an old organ in the corner. I sit in the pew, watching her—his mother. She kneels at the altar, her hands folded in prayer, her lips moving silently. I can feel her devotion from where I sit in the back of the church, her faith as bright as the rays of sunlight beaming through the stained-glass windows.

Her posture mimics his, and a smile grazes my lips.

In my hand is the rosary. The beads are newly strung, the scent of roses floats gracefully from them, though they will lose this quality over the decades. I crafted them myself, each bead carved from the core of the timeline that has unraveled and rewound itself around him. Around us.

“I wanted to give you something,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

She turns to me, her eyes soft and kind, though I can see the pain in them too. She has lived a hard life, a life of faith and sacrifice.

“What is this?” she asks, taking the rosary from my hands.

“Something he’ll carry with him, always.” I reply, my voice breaking.

She nods, tears forming in her eyes.

July 4th, 2025, Tuesday (continued)

The rosary slips through my fingers, the beads clinking softly as they fall back into the box. I close the lid with trembling hands, the truth searing through me, burning my core.

I gave her the rosary. I created it.

My mind races as I replay the emotions I felt for him all those years, even the time before I knew him.

I didn’t just travel through his life. I built it. I was never meant to stand beside him. I was always meant to stand before him, shaping the faith that would carry him long after I was gone.

The rain outside turns to a downpour, and I close my eyes, letting the tears fall freely. I let go of the resistance I have built toward the truth and let out a guttural sigh.

I will always love him. But love, like faith, always requires sacrifice.